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The Great White War

There is no one I hate more than someone who tries to tell me whom I hate.

For a quarter-century now I’ve made it very clear that most of my hatred—and there’s quite a lot of it, I never run out—is intra-racial. While those who have a death grip on media and education would love to pretend that I sit around all day stewing about blacks, I find myself incapable of mustering nearly the sort of searing animus toward my Negroidal brethren that I consistently feel toward liberal white coastal elites, who have their heads planted so far up their own asses and are so drunk on the notion of their moral irreproachability that they can’t possibly conceive anyone would hate them, much less some lowly, foulmouthed plumber’s son who grew up in a brick row home and views white liberal pieties as shallow, self-serving extravagances that help no one but themselves—specifically, their self-image.